Nardhwen

Somewhere above the hushed rushing of the underground river, and the faint flow of music throughout the Halls of Felegoth, a home settles once more into quiet.  The embers of the hearth have long been quieted, and the grand dining table – already dusty with disuse from its owner’s continued comings and goings – is scene to a last round of hasty packing.

[This letter is mostly written in Westron using cursive cirth, a handsome upright hand that is both elegant and crisply legible. It is also… substantially long.]

Bíld son of Bóurr to Híril Nardhwen greeting!

Over tall snowy mountains raking teeth against the sky, through craggy valleys tangled with trees, the raven flies. Over yellow hills and plains flies Pock, till the green of the Chetwood erupts at the border of Bree-land. The raven’s westmost destination is just past those trees — a shabby house in a little village, marked by a far less shabby, stone-reinforced windmill, sweeps turning vigorously in the stout Spring breeze.

Over lake long and forest vast, a raven with two white feathers flies. Every wingbeat, those feathers flash, a bright gleam moving among stone and tree. In the past, it made the raven a little nervous, worried those unusual feathers would draw the eye of predators or worse. 

"Meletheldi" *

Swan brooch sparkling with shine of the Elbereth's stars
I placed it on the windowsill right after dark
My heart is trembling, help me see if it’s going to break

Even if only the fireflies light the sky like some false stars
And our bond slowly fades into the endless night 
I’ll keep on asking “Be close, please” ’til my voice is sore